Bright Eyes
by SanityWithoutMind
Summary: Sequel to Stalker. Kurt Hummel has beautiful eyes, they're especially pretty when he cries. Warnings: Stalking, blood play, bondage, non-con, AU.
1. Chapter 1

When he wakes up, he doesn't know where he is. It's dark and around him all he can see is blackness. The floor is cold and unrelenting as he turns, trying to get onto his hands and knees. His muscles are weak now, and they scream and tremble as he forces himself onto his feet. He's used to this pain. The pain of physical exertion, he'd been bullied and beaten for so long. This he can handle, he thinks to himself. It's a small comfort when he doesn't know what else is coming.

He stumbles. His limbs feel heavy, as if they were weighed down with led. Still, he plows on, raising his arms in front of him, trying not to bump into anything. He can see his hands. He doesn't understand why that shocks him, until he realizes that he can see himself with perfect clarity. The wrinkles in his uniform, the red and blue contrast of his Dalton tie, every detail is visible. Not his blazer, though. That was still in his room. He thinks he would have liked it now, to protect him. Still, if he can see himself, why can't he see where this room ends? He can't see where the light is coming from. All he can see is himself, against the stark blackness of wherever he was.

He doesn't realize that his breath is coming out in short pants, or that his eyes are as wide as dinner plates. He stumbles backwards, trying to get the air back into his lungs. He can't, though. He feels like he is choking, like he is going to die. Maybe that would be better. Better to die of an anxiety attack than whatever his captor had in mind, he was sure.

"You look so pretty when you cry."

The voice was cold, like ice. Kurt froze where he was, he hadn't realized he was crying, either. There's a cut in the blackness. A rectangle of light, and Kurt realizes that the room does end, because there's a door. But then the figure closes the door, and they're back in the solid blackness of the room.

00000

It has been three days since Blaine Anderson almost kissed Kurt Hummel. Three days since his best friend mysteriously vanished from within his room. Since then, Blaine has been questioned time and time again by the police, administrators, even his own friends about what happened. He doesn't know, though. All he knows is that Kurt was scared, and now he's gone. And Blaine, well he wasn't there to help him.

Still he goes through the motions of living. Out of habit, he tells himself. Yet, he can't help but feel lost. Sure, he functioned just fine before Kurt, but now... Now he doesn't understand why Kurt is gone. He can't function because of the not knowing. It kills him. Slowly from the inside, like a poison it infects him. It draws the life from him, to where he almost doesn't notice.

He does notice.

He's in a sea of Dalton blazers, there is no reason for a man to be standing there. A man in a black suit and obscure features. No one pays it any mind, though.

For the first time in three days, he feels something. He feels it like a vice grip around his being. It's suffocating.

Terror.

He breaths. In, out, in, out. Never once taking his eyes off the man in the suit. He needs to know.

He runs. Down the hall and into his next class, he runs like the coward he is, because he's afraid. He knows what will happen next. He knows and yet he's still afraid when the stalker walks into the class behind the teacher.

He needs to know.

00000

So many questions. There are so many questions swimming around Kurt's head as he stares at his abductor.

"What do you want with me?"

His voice is shaky, he has to struggle to keep it strong. Months. That's how long he's been seeing this man, and now they are finally face to face. He wants to know why. Why follow him around for months? Why make him terrified of his own shadow? Why now?

"You have such pretty eyes."

He doesn't understand what that has to do with anything. His captor seems to think it explains everything, though, because he is walking towards Kurt now. He urges his feet to move but they refuse. He can feel his body trembling, now. From anger, from fear, from frustration. He struggles with himself to move, to run, but he doesn't know where when all he sees is blackness. Still he can't help but try. He makes it several feet before he slams into a wall, and brilliantly concludes that the walls must me black.

He's flipped around by a forceful grip and backed into the wall by his captor. They're chest to chest and the man leans down to rest his mouth by his ear.

"You have such pretty skin, too."

"Get away from me!" Kurt screams pushing the man away from him. His voice is hoarse and shrill when it comes out, and it bounces between the walls before dying.

The man is angry, he can tell, and he's shoved backwards. He stills when his back hits the wall, because he's used to this. He's used to being shoved around like this. This he can take. "So pretty when it bruises, too." He whispers lustfully into Kurt's neck. That, that Kurt can't take.

"Please." He begs, because his options are running low and he doesn't know what to do anymore.

The man raises a hand to gently touch Kurt's cheek. So soft, so gentle, almost adoringly. The hand is slow as it drags downward over the soft skin of his cheek to the tender skin of his neck. The man caresses it, almost lovingly. Kurt feels sick, and squeezes his eyes shut. Suddenly Kurt's jaw is held in a vice grip as the man is hissing at him to open his eyes. Kurt shakes his head, he doesn't want to see this.

White hot pain explodes on the left side of his face and his head is thrown back against the wall. "You will do as I say." He hisses again, his tone leaving no room for argument. This time, Kurt opens his eyes reluctantly, wondering if perhaps he'd be better off letting the man beat him to death.

Sickly sweet joy radiates off the man as he leans in, nuzzling the left side of Kurt's jaw where he hit him. "That's going to leave such a pretty bruise."

Kurt forces himself to stare onwards, hardening his features in the way he's trained himself to since the first time someone had pushed him and called him a faggot. Before he even knew what that word meant.

He expects more petting, or possibly more pain. He does not expect it when the man's hands clench around his neck, cutting off his air supply. His hands fly to his neck out of instinct, trying desperately to pry the cold fingers away. He feels lightheaded and his lungs start to burn when the man finally lets go. Knees give out below him as he drops to the floor gasping for breath. Only a few moments are allowed to him to catch his breath before the hands are around him again. This time he knows better, and his hands don't go for himself. Instead they flail outward at the other man, ineffectual fist pounding away, trying to force some sort of release. His efforts are fruitless, and slowly, he loses consciousness.

00000

Blaine has had time to think now. He thinks when he's suppose to be doing history homework with Wes and David. It's study hall, and the Stalker is sitting on the bench by the window. He avoids its gaze and focuses on what's in front of him, trying to act nonchalant. If he seems out of sorts, his friends say nothing. They think it's because of Kurt's disappearance. They are trying to be understanding and supportive. They don't know the truth.

The guilt he feels is the worst. Guilt over lying to his friends. Guilt about not believing Kurt. Guilt over not being able to do anything. He never does anything, he just runs. Look where that has gotten him. Sitting in a room with a figment of his imagination, which may not be a hallucination at all.

He can't keep calm about this, he can't even focus. He doesn't know how Kurt was able to like this for months without telling anybody. Its only been hours and he wants to scream it; he wants to shout it from the rooftops to anyone who will listen. No one will listen, though. They'll take him to the school shrink, tell him it's just a reaction to the grief and to just relax, it will all get better. He knows this because he told Kurt the exact same thing. Thinking back on it now, he can't help but feel so stupid.

He stares down at his European history essay, having written all of two sentences. Kurt would have had this done in no time, he was great at history. He is great at history, Blaine corrects himself because speaking in past tense...

He packs up his belongings. Wes and David stop what they are doing to look at him, concern shining bright in both pairs of eyes.

"I'm fine guys. I think I'm just going to finish this up in my room." Both boys trade glances. They don't like the idea of Blaine going up to his room alone right now. They've been trying not to leave him alone for three days. They don't like this at all.

"If you need help I can offer you my assistance. I took European History with Barrett last year." Wes offers kindly.

He sighs, understanding what is going on here. He's not stupid. "Guys, I just need some time alone. I'll be fine, I promise."

Really, he's appreciative of the friends he has. If this were any other situation, he'd probably be very, very grateful. However, the figure lurking in the corner reminds him it's not. This is his situation and it's different, dangerous, unknown territory. He can't let his friends get involved in this. What he needs is to figure this out on his own.

After that he leaves, running up to his dorm, and locking the door behind him. His roommate won't be back for hours, and he has a key anyways. Blaine's concern is the stalker. He's not sure how long until it starts to show up in his room, but he's hoping for enough time to just think.

He starts to pace his bedroom. All this wound up energy surging in him, all this needing and wanting and frustration that he doesn't know what to do with. He needs to focus it. Usually, he focuses on singing, on perfect harmonies and charismatic performances. Right now he focuses it on Kurt and on finding out what happened to his best friend. He paces for minutes, or hours, it could have been days for all he cared. Ideas, logical and unreasonable, bounced back and forth across his brain. Each new idea ended up being rejected or reinforced only to be rejected again.

He stops pacing eventually, another idea half forming in his brain. Eyes lock on the door. It would be rash and stupid, but he does it anyway. Before giving himself another second to think about it and possibly stop himself he unlocks the door and throws it wide open.

Outside stand Wes and David.

"How did you know we were-"

"Blaine are you okay?"

David interrupts Wes because Blaine is glancing up and down the hallway, only partially paying attention to the two people in front of him.

"Yeah, I'm-wait what are you guys doing here?" He clears his headspace and refocuses on what is happening in front of him. "Are you checking up on me? I told you I'd be fine."

"Look, Blaine we're just concerned about you. We know how upset you are about Kurt's disappearance, but beating yourself up over it isn't going to make anything better." He looks at David, wondering what made him think he had any idea what was going on inside of Blaine's head. He had no right.

"You guys don't understand." He says angrily, pushing between them and into the hallway. He can't be here right now, he needs to leave, to get away from them.

"What don't we understand, exactly?" Wes ask him as he turns around. Blaine turns around too, to look him in the eye. It's that look that deflates his anger, he knows he can't be upset. Both of them are filled with such concern, such care that he knows that they're doing this because they genuinely are worried about him. More guilt to add to the pot.

"I just-I need to be alone." He says, this time with a plea in his voice. When he turns to leave, they don't follow him. Later, he will wonder if perhaps they should have. Right now, he runs into the bathrooms.

The cold water is refreshing against his warm skin. He turns off the tap and breaths heavily, flushed and tired. Tired from running. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up without snapping.

When he lifts his head to look into the mirror he jumps, spinning on his heel quickly. He tries to reign in the heart that's desperately trying to beat out of his chest as his eyes frantically scan the bathroom. There's nothing there, but he knows what he saw in the mirror. He glances at the mirror again, but it's empty besides his own reflection.

"Come out!" He yells angrily at the empty space. "Come out, I know you're here!"

The stall door flies open and Blaine snaps around so quickly he's sure he has whiplash. A tiny freshman comes out looking terrified. Realizing that it's his fault he tries to placate the boy. "Sorry, I didn't think anyone was in here." He lies easily, trying to pull his best charming smile.

"S'rry," the small boy stutters before running out of the bathroom without washing his hands.

Dropping the facade he groans and faces the mirror again, tracing the water droplets falling down his chin and neck. He's never been so disappointed at his own reflection before.

00000

When Kurt wakes up a second time, his neck is sore. He notices his tie is gone, and the first two buttons of his shirt have been ripped off. He raises a hand to his neck, touching the tender skin and winces. He's bruised, badly, he can tell. He curses his pale skin for bruising so easily.

"I knew you would look pretty."

His head snaps up at the voice. He didn't notice the figure in the room. "Such pretty, pretty skin you have. Almost as pretty as your eyes."

Kurt feels ill at the way he says it. It makes him feel ashamed and he closes off, curling in around himself. "You still haven't told me what you want." He snaps, while still trying to make himself as small as possible.

His captor releases an empty laugh before kneeling down in front of Kurt. "You bruise so nicely." Kurt turns face away, not wanting to be this close to his tormentor. He regrets it the moment the man leans forward, nuzzling himself in Kurt's neck. Lips graze gently over the bruised skin of his neck and jaw. A hand comes up to play with the bruises on his lower neck. It hurts, but he forces himself not to flinch away, not wanting this to get any worse. "I wonder how pretty you bleed?"

At this, Kurt does flinch. He flails away from the crazed man, scampering backwards until his back is firm against the wall. No where else to go. The man laughs again, and grabs Kurt by his hair - hard - and throws him into the center of the room. He crumbles easily.

_No one pushes the Hummels around._

Kurt forces himself to his feet, but is knocked back down again. The man pins him, and flips him onto his back with ease. There was a reason he never physically fought back against his bullies. Other than the fact that it was barbaric and uncivilized, most could easily overpower him. He stares at the knife the man is now brandishing. The metal glistens and he looks up. Finally he sees the light in the room, a bright sphere in the center of the ceiling shedding light in an otherwise black space. Not dark, but black, empty, void.

That's where he focuses as the man rips off the rest of the buttons on his shirt. That's where stares intently as unwanted hands, cold to the touch, roam over his chest. He stares until he starts seeing spots and even then he refuses to look away. Especially when the man is muttering against his skin.

"So pretty."

"So pale."

"Can't wait."

"To paint you red."

His breath hitches when he feels the cold metal around his neck. The point drifts over his skin until it hovers directly in the hollow of his neck between his collar bones. He feels it press forward, then drag, slowly, downward. The drag goes on forever. He can feel it going down his chest; blood droplets coalesce, pool, then fall. Down his chest, over his sides, onto his stomach. Everywhere. Finally, the man stops when he reaches his navel.

Then, to Kurt's horror, the man begins to lick along the cut, lapping up the spilled blood, all the while muttering.

"So pretty."

"So pale."

"Love to see you red."

Trails of saliva linger on his skin, mixing with the blood leaving his skin tinted pink. Pink from the heat of his mouth as he gently mouths along the soft skin of his stomach. Pink from the droplets that fall before his tormentor has the chance to eagerly consume it. The man lifts himself up and grins. "So, so much prettier when you cry."

When did he start crying? He can't remember. It doesn't matter, because it doesn't stop the man from licking up his cheeks, lapping up his spilled tears, like it was his blood. He cries harder.

When he finally stops crying and there are no more tears, the man peels away from Kurt. Before he leaves, he kisses each of Kurt's shut eyelids. The only time he's closed his eyes during this entire ordeal.

There's a small rectangle of light. And then blackness. Kurt stares up at the light and cries again.

00000

Blaine trudges back to his room. Alone, but no longer wishing to be alone. What he wishes for is to have Kurt's company. To have Kurt's presence beside him, chattering away in that uplifting voice of his. To brush their shoulders against each other as they walked in a way that was both comforting and enthralling. He wants to see Kurt's coy smile again, the one he has as his eyes gaze up from under long eyelashes, teasing him playfully. He wants, but he can't have. And he can't have because he screwed up. Again. Kurt was reaching out, and Blaine let him down, not for the first time.

When he reaches his door Wes and David are gone. They've finally given up on him and he wonders if maybe he should too.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches movement. He spins around so fast it surprises him he didn't break some sort of law of physics. His hearts starts racing while his limbs fill with led. An icy sensation flows through him as his eyes dart around the hall and around corner. His hands are balled into fist at his sides and he can feel the small hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The movement appears again, and his head swivels quickly to follow. He's bracing himself for something, but he isn't sure what.

"Blaine are you alright?"

The boy in question jumps a good foot in the air before turning to see him roommate. He lets out a breath, but he doesn't know if it's of relief or disappointment.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You coming in for the night?" He asked, already pushing open the door so they can both get in.

"No, I'm just grabbing a few overnight things." Blaine raises an eyebrow as the other boy starts throwing a several pieces of clothing into a duffel bag. Upon seeing the confused expression he elaborates. "My sister had her baby, so my parents are getting me excused from classes tomorrow so I can go up and visit her for the weekend. So congrats man, you've booked yourself a single." His roommate flashes him a smile at this, as if being alone for the weekend while he was going out of his mind was a good thing.

"Give your sister my congratulations." Was all me managed to get out, not forgetting to put on his polite smile.

"See you on Sunday, man." His roommate patted him on the shoulder before heading out and closing the door behind him.

"I sure hope so."

00000

He stares at the light for so long that the spots in his vision start dancing. He likes to make them dance because it keeps his mind occupied from the thoughts consuming his head. Because if he distracts himself long enough, he doesn't have to think of anything.

He does not wonder how long he's been here. If anyone has noticed he is gone, or if anyone will notice. They didn't notice when he was being stalked, why would they notice when he was finally abducted? No, he definitely does not harbor resentment towards the people who saw him breaking but did nothing to stop it. Does not wish that he could see their faces just one more time.

He definitely does not think about his father or how he would react once he finds out his son is gone. Wouldn't dare think about the repercussions this may have on his heart. Kurt stressed him out enough as is, he would hate to be the one who finally caused his father to keel over and-and he was just starting to repair his relationship with Finn. They had just now started being brothers. He does not think of the family he has left behind.

He does not dwell on Blaine's face. On the kiss that almost was, or the soft dancing that made him feel warm and safe for that short period of time. He does not miss the feeling of warm calloused fingers against his or the lingering scent of Blaine's cologne. He refuses to think about sun kissed skin, or soft curls that he always wondered about under that shell of gel. He will not reminisce about pseudo-coffee dates at the Lima Bean, or the way Blaine always walked him to class. How he was the one person who understood him, who cared about him and supported him even when he was at his worst and weakest.

No, Kurt does not allow himself to wonder or think or dwell, because he cannot allow himself to. If he does, if he slips for just one moment, all his walls will break down and he will be nothing. He can muster up strength from years of abuse and bullying to fight whatever may come, but he cannot think about his loved ones. He cannot give into how much he misses them or how much he needs them. That will only give him hope that he can no longer afford.

The light goes fuzzy and his eyelids begin to flutter shut. He does not enjoy this, he needs his distraction and he can't see it anymore. He tries to open his eyes, but they feel heavy, and he's just so tired. So when he can no longer fight it, he drifts away into nightmares filled with loved ones he may never see again.

00000

Normally, he doesn't mind being alone. He likes being around people, sure, but he can only ever really be comfortable with himself in the privacy of his own space. A space he let Kurt step into only to have that other boy ripped away, and in his place entered a demon from his nightmares. He does not like his space anymore. It feels cold, unfamiliar and makes him feel sick in the pit of his stomach, like something that does not belong is there.

It's barely past nine but he can't bring himself to care about school right now. He figures he may as well try to get some sleep because this day has exhausted him, but the second his head hits the pillow it becomes a mess of jumbled thoughts that he can't keep track of.

Groaning, he rolls over and stumbles out of bed, fumbling for the latch on the window. Fresh air, that's all he needs. Some fresh air to clear his head. He cracks the window open, only an inch, but it's cold out. He sits on a trunk and let's the cold air wash over him. The familiarity provides a strange kind of warmth inside of him, a welcome change to the emptiness he has been feeling. The emptiness caused by the loss of a friend to an unknown villain.

The same villain that is standing in the tree outside his window. Blaine falls off his seat and scrambles to his knees. His eyes never leaving the stalker that so casually leans against the trunk of the tree, as if he isn't guilty or capable of despicable acts. Blaine's face scrunches together in anger as he tries to force his window open all the way. It takes two, very ungraceful, shoves to prop open the window of the old building. The cold air hits him full blast and bite into him like daggers, but he stays where he is glaring at the other.

"What did you do to Kurt?" He growls, more to himself, but his anger getting the better of him.

"What do you want from me?" Louder still, venom starting to lace his words.

"Why don't you come and face me!" This time he yells it, no longer caring who hears him.

For a long time, neither one of them move. He stands there waiting the whole while, allowing his anger to fester, just wishing that something would happen, that the other man would move. Then he blinks and the stalker is gone. Panicked, his eyes scan the other branches, but he doesn't see anything resembling a squirrel much less whatever that evil being may be. It frustrates him, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take this game of cat and mouse. In his defeat he slams the window shut, cutting off the cold wind from entering his bedroom.

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to get the feeling back, but still only feeling numbness.

When he turns around he expects to see his disheveled covers and rumpled pillow. He expects to see the glowing red digits of his alarm clock and the small pile of clothes he tossed onto the floor when changing into his pajamas. He does not expect the figure perched on his desk, using his chair as a footrest. That is something he never expects to see, and yet he does.

So many things. There are so many questions that race to get to his lips first. What happened to Kurt? Is he still alive? Why couldn't I see you before? Why are you here now? What are you going to do to me?

A familiar cold wraps around him, but this isn't the warm familiar of the cold night air. This is unwelcome and chilling to the bone. His heart rate quickens and he can feel led in his veins, heavy and slow. He looks at his stalker, really looks, at the distorted features and void he seems to consume.

"I'm going to the same place Kurt is."

It's not a question but a guarantee. He draws himself up to full height, not at all impressive, but he holds himself tall, fierce and unrelenting. His eyes steel over and he glares, headstrong and full of passion.

"Take me you coward." He all but growls. The stalker does not move, which only angers him further. "Take me, like you took him." When still nothing happens he goads again, met with only indifference.

Finally, something in him just _snaps_.

"I said take me!"

He charges, not sure what possessed him to do so and uncertain of what will happen. He only knows one thing, thinks one thing, feels one thing before his world goes black around him.

He needs to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Stalking, blood play, bondage, non-con, AU  
><strong>AN:** Heed the warnings. This chapter gets intense.

* * *

><p>Quietly, as so not to wake him up, I open the door to his chamber. I love watching him sleep, he's so fitful and restless. Incoherent murmurs spill from his lips and I can taste the fear as it pours out of him in waves. I love when he's terrified, it makes his skin even paler than usual. Milky white, such a contrast to the bright red.<p>

Leaning over him, I pet his face gently. I want to be careful, I don't want to ruin them. I must be patient, make them super pretty so that I can have them perfect forever.

I trace the curves and planes of his bare chest. So soft. So pale. So pretty. For a long time I just admire before I remember that I have a purpose. I get to work, quietly, even though I know he won't wake. Not until I want him to. But I don't want to make too much noise because the noises he makes are so beautiful. His whimpers give me shivers, and the few times he cries out nearly send me over the edge.

For the moment I am gentle with him. Always light touches and easy caresses. He must remain absolutely perfect for when the time comes. Everything needs to be perfect if I want to keep them forever. I don't even allow myself to touch, no matter how much I am itching to do just that. I can't get ahead of myself.

I step back and look at my work. The need and want is so overwhelming when I look at him. So perfect and pale, except for the cut, the cut is such a brilliant, stark red. It's beautiful, almost.

His eyes are shut. Those pretty, vibrant eyes are once again out of my reach.

The very thought of it, it fills me with anger. More than that though, I can feel it, the ever present lust that has consumed me since I first saw him-saw them. I palm myself, and hiss at the contact as I imagine them now. So stunning in their own right, even now at their dullest they would still shine. But not like when he cries, when he cries they get so bright and - oh the emotion. I love how his eyes reflect everything, every fleeting feeling and magnifies them. And when he's terrified, they shine like never before looking so - Oh! I grip myself so tight it's almost painful.

I think of my plans for him and smile in pleasure. I think of all the things I want to do. I want to touch, to pet, to hold, to kiss, to taste, to caress.

Soon, I tell myself. Soon, those pretty, perfect orbs will be forever mine.

**00000**

It is bright when Blaine wakes. That alone should set off alarm bells, but it doesn't because he's too disoriented to think clearly. He lifts his arm to shield his eyes from the intense lighting that streams through his eyelids. He notes that his movements are sluggish and his limbs are heavy. Carefully, slowly, he begins to blink to get use to the light. When it is no longer painful to keep his eyes open, he looks at his surroundings.

He's on the floor of an all white room. Sterile white, like in a hospital, and empty. He's the only thing inside the room, and he doesn't know if that should be a comfort or not. He looks up to take in the ceiling and makes note of all the lightbulbs. That explains the why everything is so shockingly bright. It's also cold in the room, and the thin t-shirt and sweatpants he wore to sleep do little to warm him. Altogether, he can't help but feel naked somehow.

Rubbing his arms for friction, he tries to think of his next plan of action. He didn't exactly have a plan to begin with, he was mostly acting out of adrenaline, but now that he's here... Well, he doesn't even know where here is, or if Kurt is even here, or alive. He doesn't know what will happen to him. He doesn't know if people will realize he's gone. He doesn't know anything. Somehow, he can't help but feel he knows even less than before.

He's so confused and alone and dammit why is it so bright?

"Not as pretty."

That voice. He swears he feels the temperature in the room drop. Shivers run down his spine as the hairs on his body raise. The blood pumping through him may as well be ice with the way he is trembling.

"W-what?" He ask, genuinely confused. That isn't exactly the type of greeting he expects from his captor. Though, to be fair, considering the situation, he wasn't expecting much of a greeting at all.

The man doesn't answer, instead he just walks into the room, a rectangle of blackness closing behind him as he walks over to Blaine. Not exactly a fan of this new development, the boy tries quickly to get back on his feet. He stumbles, his legs wobbly and uncooperative, but manages to get himself into a standing position just in time to come face to face with his attacker. Somehow, the other man is overwhelmingly tall. Or maybe that is just the crippling fear Blaine is trying desperately to ignore. His effort to remain in control is valiant nonetheless.

The man keeps approaching, and Blaine feels himself being pushed back. Passive. He tells himself. Always so damn passive. He needs to hold his ground, he can't let this thing push him around. Swallowing deeply Blaine stands firm, not allowing the man to repel him further.

"Where am I? Where's Kurt, I know he's here." The man, who has been getting far too close for Blaine's comfort freezes immediately at the mention of Kurt's name.

"Kurt." He says the name slowly, softly, almost as if the word is so fragile that it would break if treats it to callously. "So pretty. So beautiful."

He can feel his throat close immediately. He doesn't like the way the man says those words. It makes him uneasy and nauseous and no, this isn't a good thing at all, he knows.

"What a-are you trying to say?" He ask again, suddenly feeling caged in as the man's chest is closer than ever. His back hits a wall and his breath hitches. Nowhere to run. He's suddenly getting awful Sadie Hawkins flashbacks and it all seems so pathetic now, as this is so, so much worse.

The man reaches out a hand and cups the side of his face. He flinches and tries to squirm away but then there's another hand reaching up and yanking his head back by the hair, forcing him to look up into his attacker's face. Only, there's isn't a face. This close up, and he still can't make out any features. It's like a distorted image, the kind that happens when you play with photo manipulators.

He's hears teeth chattering only to realize that it's him. He's trembling.

"Not as pretty." The hand that is cupping the side of his face moves up to his temple. A cold finger brushes over his cheek, running along the bone, slowly working its way up. He shuts his eyes, but a sharp tug at the back of his head forces them open again out of shock. The finger continues to caress the areas around his eyes, over his eyelid, his under eye, and he gets the picture. He keeps his eyes open as the man explores his face, all the while wishing for this to be over. "No. Not nearly at all."

He is released and crumples to the ground, gasping for breath that he didn't know he needed.

The man retreats slightly, watching as Blaine falls apart on the floor. When the boy finally gathers himself again, he looks up, fire and hatred rooted in his glare as he stares down the man. His eyes are wet and his skin is red, but he doesn't allow tears to fall.

The tall figure looms over him a moment before turning around to leave. Just before he leaves he mutters under his breath. "Still might be worth it."

Blaine watches him disappear through the door and lets out a sigh, part relief, part disappointment in himself.

**00000**

When Kurt wakes up, he's nearly blinded by the bright lights above his head. He wants to shield his face, but quickly comes to several startling realizations.

He can't move.

He's cold and he can't move.

He's naked, he's cold and he can't move.

_Shit_.

**00000**

Blaine isn't exactly sure how much time has passed when the stalker returns. Time works differently here, it doesn't seem to speed up or slow down. It just, stops, leaving him unsure as to how to take that and what exactly it implies. He is sure he needs to stop referring to him-it-what-have-you as the stalker, though, considering this has moved far past stalking, into abduction and possibly far, far more. If only he could know what exactly that was.

"What are you going to do to me?" He ask, trying to feign bravery.

He successfully hides the small quiver threatening to slip into his voice, so he counts that as a small victory. Then the man looks at him, really looks at him and it's like he's been punched in the gut. Whatever bravado he was putting on immediately slips away and he's left speechless once again.

He's still trying to catch his breath when he feels cold hands wrap around his shoulders. Gasping, his hands snap to his shoulders, trying to pry away the offending appendages. Pain erupts in his side as the pointed toe of a long, slender foot collides with his ribs. His hands drop, trying to wrap around his middle. Another flash of pain along his back and shoulders as he's shoved roughly against the wall. Really, he and this wall are becoming too familiar for his comfort. Rather unfortunate for him.

One cold, clammy hand with long, slender fingers pin his wrists to the wall above him. The other has a firm grip on his jaw, forcing him to look forward. It's only then that he finally notices what's laying on the ground behind his captor. He gulps, his mind running a hundred miles a second as horrible scenarios start to play out in his head. The fear must be evident in his eyes, because the man lets out a cold, hollow laugh. It's brief, barely there, barely human.

"Need to see if you're worth my time."

His stomach lurches at that and he feels like he's going to puke. He thinks he has a fairly decent idea of how this is going to play out. A thought only reinforced when he feels the quick stroke of cool metal against his skin at the same time he hears fabric tearing. Cold air hits his exposed chest and suddenly the fight is back in him. He's a flurry of flailing arms and legs as he begins to struggle. A knee finally collides and the man stumbles backwards, releasing him.

_He's fourteen again._

_He is lying on the ground and the biggest guy is kicking him in the ribs. The pain is too much and he forces his body to roll out of the way. He rolls into his friend, also moaning and broken on the ground. With steely resolve he clumsily gets onto his knees while the other kids are laughing. Without thinking he lunges at the boy who was kicking him, but the other two are too fast and pin him by his arms as he struggles. The boy in front of him laughs again before another blow lands against his face. He stumbles backwards, his back hitting the concrete once more as he looks up into the faces of his attackers as they loom over him._

The image blurs and he's looking up at his captor. When did he get on the floor again?

The man is clearly not pleased, he can feel the anger radiating off of him. It's hot, sickly, and raging. It's like there's a fire hovering above him, close enough to feel but not enough to burn. It's getting hard to breath and he flips over, trying to crawl away, though his limbs are feeling heavy again.

He doesn't get far at all, before a hot grip wraps around his ankle. It feels like it's burning and he screams. Roughly, he's flipped over onto his back and the same burning heat is crawling all over his body. He can't breathe anymore, and he's certain he's going to die. His vision is still blurred and when he tries to blink it away, all he sees are the bright lights in the ceiling. So bright, too bright now. He closes his eyes but the rough pull on his hair reminds him that the stalker doesn't like that.

White hot flames dance across his skin and push his shirt off his shoulders. Warm, burning fire lays against him, chest to chest. Raging heat rocks against his hips, hard and rough. Hard pressure thrust against him, knocking the breath out of him each time, because it hurts so much in so many ways. He feels pain, he feels heat, and fire and burn. When the temperature becomes to much and the air too solid he finally feels it burst. Then he feels the cooling sensation of relief against him before the pressure on top of him peels away.

He feels the cold air meet his bare chest. Is aware of the sweat cooling on his skin and the way his sweatpants cling to his legs, completely soaked through. Can tell there is a sticky patch of bodily fluid, that is most definitely not his own, drying on him. He feels it, the cold leer the stalker gives him before leaving, muttering a soft "not worth it" before he exits.

He feels a lot of things. Most of all, he can't help but feel used.

**00000**

The panic he had been attempting to fight off returns at full force. There is very little doubt in his mind as to what is going to happen next. Worst of all, he can't even try and fight it. He is forced to just lay there and take it. He hates this; he hates his lack of control over everything, over anything. His life, his body, it was like this stalker is taking everything from him.

He would take everything from him.

It is in this state of despair that the stalker finds Kurt. Bound, spread eagle on a cold metal table, stretched out and waiting. His eyes, though, are bright and filled with fear from the moment the dark figure had walked in. Perfect. "Always perfect."

"Please don't do this." Kurt begs, his voice cracking from disuse and fear. "You don't have to do this." He pleads again, knowing full well that it is useless. This man had been after him for months. He wouldn't stop now.

"Oh, but I do." The reply is cold, solidifying in the pit of his stomach.

Sobs echo in the room as Kurt once again struggles against his bonds. He tries to feel them out, see if there's any knot to untie, any lock to pick, something to help him slip out of his predicament. Nothing. He feels nothing but the tight pull of leather cutting the circulation to his hands. He hates this.

The stalker laughs that cold, empty laugh that mocks him. "Play nice and it won't be so bad." He says, caressing the apple of his cheek softly.

Kurt tries to pull away from the fingers, but his head is held firmly into place as well. So instead, he cries, silent tears spilling down his cheeks that the man wipes away with care. "Why are you doing this? You owe me that much."

The fingers on his cheek suddenly disappear before returning to slap him across the face. They reappear around his neck, closing in tight. "I owe you nothing." The man hisses right against his ear. He pulls away and the hand goes back to caressing his cheek, higher this time, the thumb moving right under his eye as the man speaks again. "I'm doing this because your eyes are so, so pretty." The thumb changes angle and suddenly he can feel a sharp slice right along the circle under his eye. "And I want them as my own."

At first he's confused. Then, as he watches his tormentor admire the few drops of blood sliding over the side of his face, realization suddenly dawns on him. He can't breathe. The magnitude of the man's words hit him and suddenly he's breathing too quickly, fast shallow breaths because he finally understands what's going to happen and "No, please no!" escapes his lips in a flurry of useless pleas.

The man just laughs again, so full of mirth. The grin on his face is absolutely sinister and it's clear he is oh so pleased with himself.

He leaves Kurt's line of vision but he can hear sounds off to his right. Footsteps come closer and he can feel the man's presence at his feet, he can feel him looking down. He feels nothing but exposed. He wishes he could close his legs but he can't, they're propped up on metal bars and pulled wide apart, strapped to the metal with those same tight leather bands. He feels shame and humiliation. The first person to ever see him like this is a psychotic lunatic. And he will probably be the last too. The thought makes his stomach drop.

Cold fingers trace up his thigh. An ice like hand rubs against his knee, his inner thigh, his groin. He cries and flinches away from the touch but there is nowhere to move. His hips, his ankles, his knees are all strapped down to something. There is no escaping the freezing touch that fondles him, rubs him, squeezes him. His heart is beating so quickly he thinks it might burst out of his chest, if his lungs don't implode first from the rapid, erratic breathing. Panic. That is all he has as this man takes whatever is left of him.

Then there's slick and cold. Against his entrance. Pushing against him. Pulling him apart. "NO! NO!" He's screaming, loudly and hysterically as a long, cold finger works its way into him. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want this intrusion, he doesn't want to be helpless. He wants to fight, he wants to stand up for himself, he wants to do something. All he can do is scream and cry.

A second finger.

A third finger.

There's barely any lube by the third finger, so he's getting the feeling the pervert is just doing this for shits and giggles. Because he likes watching Kurt squirm. Because he likes making him cry. Because the way his eyes glow with fear and agony and shame is apparently just so arousing.

"Precious." Is what he calls it as he traces around Kurt's eye with a silver blade. His other hand is occupied with pumping in and out of the boy, crooking his fingers, his strange fingers which oddly all seem to be the same length, in painful and uncomfortable ways just to watch how he reacts, to see the emotions flash brilliantly in his eyes. "You've never looked more beautiful." He purrs next to Kurt's ear. He didn't know it was possible to sob harder.

His tormentor makes careful cuts around his eyes, careful not to damage the eyeballs of course, "because that's for later," for just before he reaches breaking point. "That's when they'll be most beautiful." The man speaks the words as if to a lover. Kurt has never felt so far from love in his life.

**00000**

Worthless. That's how he feels as he lays on the floor covered in sweat and other sticky, unmentionable substances. He also feels shame, humiliation, anger, regret. Mostly worthless, that kind of wraps it all up in a nice little bow, he thinks.

Blaine flips himself over and just lays there, because the energy it took to do just that has drained him. In front of him is a pile of bondage equipment. The psychopathic pervert just left it there after rutting against him and fucking coming on his-

Stopping that whirlwind in its tracks, he takes several deep breaths because he can feel himself getting hysterical now. He needs to calm down, because obviously that's what one should do when they're stuck in an impossible situation.

Getting a grip on his emotions he pulls himself to his feet, still staring down the pile of straps and ties. They weren't even needed. He didn't fight back hard enough. The man just took what he wanted, easy. He was easy. No wonder the man thought he wasn't worth the effort.

Blaine stopped his train of thought right there. He should not and could not be angry that the man had decided not to rape him. But fuck it if the rejection didn't still mess with his head. His fist clench and he finds himself kicking the pile out of anger. There is a clatter as things fall and tumble away.

An odd shaped bar sticks out at him. It's long, probably three feet, and tapered at one end, heavy as well. He isn't sure what it's for, probably doesn't want to know, but he finds the seeds of hope starting to plant themselves in his head. Struck with an idea he grabs the bar and runs over to where the black rectangle had formed earlier. His hands slide along the walls feeling frantically for any slight crack, something he could use to -

A finger slices open and blood trickles down to the first knuckle. "Bingo."

**00000**

He feels like he is being ripped apart. There are four fingers now. Four abnormally long fingers. What once was ice to the touch is now burning him from the inside out, as if this man was made out of flames. He'd twist and turn them at odd angles, and each time Kurt let out a strangled scream, a desperate noise. That is all he can do, and the man loves it, plays him like a harp. Sharp notes, deep grunts, high pitched, terror filled screams. The pain is musical to him.

It just feels excruciating to Kurt.

The blood is trickling down his face now. More cuts have been added. Under his lids, over his eyes, across his cheeks. Digging deeper and deeper because the red is just "so bright, so perfect" against his sheet white skin. He has never hated his complexion more than the does right now.

He's a mess. Snot, tears and blood mix and fall down his face, falling into his hair and down his neck. He's sure he doesn't look the least bit attractive but all he can hear is "Stunning, so bright and stunning. Can't wait to make them mine." It's all to much. He can't take this anymore, he just wants it to over. He'd do anything to make it end, the pain, the humiliation, the fear of not knowing what would happen to him next.

"Kurt!"

**00000**

That voice - his salvation and his damnation - makes time stop.

The world freezes. He finally manages to use the bar to pry the door open. He's not entirely sure how it worked, but he's not exactly sure how anything works around here. All he knows is that from the moment he opened the door, his world froze, because never in his life has he ever felt such utter terror and relief at the same time.

The name escapes his lips without his authority and everything in the room stops. Everyone seems to have stopped breathing and have frozen in place, unable to move or comprehend what is going on. Then, in a flash the bubble burst and everything was a flurry of movements and yells.

The stalker abandons Kurt and lets out a horrible, malice filled screech. He lunges at Blaine who dodges the attack and is running directly for Kurt who is screaming at him to get out, to leave while he still can. The stalker spins around, and it's like fear itself has him gripped him around the waist. His temperature drops, his heart rate rises, his feet refuse to move. Not again, he can't do this again, Kurt is depending on him.

The two boys lock eyes just once. It's brief, and hardly last a second. But it's all he needs, because Kurt's bright eyes hold everything.

He breaks out of whatever it is that is binding him. The stalker is coming closer, looking as menacing as ever. Pure hatred and rage is pouring off of the demented being like hellfire but it doesn't stop him this time. The bar is still in his hands, long and heavy. It was probably meant to weight him down, to keep him in position so that he couldn't move, couldn't fight back.

"Just watch me." He growls in challenge. He swings, just like his dad taught him the day he took him to the batting cages. Another failed father-son bonding activity he'd never been more grateful for. The bar collides with the stalker's head, knocking him backwards and bringing him to the ground. Blaine doesn't miss a beat and brings the bar down again. And again. And again.

His rage finally tapers, just a bit, and he steps away from the stalker, dropping the bar in the process. He has more pressing issues right now, like the boy on the table.


End file.
